


Corner Me And Make Me Something

by thegoblincity



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, angsty handjobs, because there's nothing not fucked up about this relationship, so we might as well, used as a fucked up way of apologizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 16:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoblincity/pseuds/thegoblincity
Summary: "Why did he do it?" Jim asks, staring at Oswald's bullet wound while the doctor dresses it.He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't have come. He shouldn't have listened.





	Corner Me And Make Me Something

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born out of my need to see Jim apologize to Oswald for leaving him in Arkham. Because he needs to do it. Like, yesterday.  
> So here it is. 
> 
> Title is from "Hollow Man" by REM, which is also the song that inspired this mess.

"Why did he do it?" Jim asks, staring at Oswald's bullet wound while the doctor dresses it.  
He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't have come. He shouldn't have listened.   
He should have closed the call as soon as he’d heard Oswald’s request.  
But Oswald's voice on the phone had sounded so different. So ghost-like. Like he wasn't even sure to be alive.   
Right now, pale and bony in his black robe, eyes hollow and hands gripping the sheets from pain, he looks like a shadow of himself.  
"Hmm?" Oswald replies, not lifting his head.   
"Why did he shoot you? What did you do?"   
Not that Nygma needed a particular reason to go around shooting people... Jim is aware of that.   
But there's rage, anguish tugging at the angles of Oswald's face, though he's clearly making a hard effort not to let it transpire.   
Oswald tenses.  
"I don't want to talk about it." His voice is a hiss, like the mere thought angers him to no end.  
"Oswald-"  
"Jim." The tone is final.  
Jim sighs, lets it go. They have time to talk about this.   
_About everything._

 

It's past midnight when they get to Jim's flat.

 

"You should rest. I'll take the couch, bed's clean, I changed the sheets--"  
"I killed his girlfriend." Oswald is looking at the wall with a void expression.  
Jim looks confused for a second, then remembers his unanswered question. He leans against the door.  
"Why?"  
"Because I loved him. Because I wanted him for myself."   
Jim feels like he just got hit by a bucket of freezing water, his whole body tensing and his breath stuck in his throat.   
_What._  
"Don't look so surprised, Jim." A weak bitter smirk appears on Oswald's face. "There's a lot you don't know about me."   
Jim exhales, forces his features to relax.   
"And-"  
"And he didn't love me back." Oswald smiles a sad smile around a sigh, blinks away a wetness that threatens to fall down his cheeks and turns to the bed, starts walking towards it.  
"Oswald-"  
"That's all there is to it, Jim. Really. I'll survive." That sad smile again, like he's remembering an inside joke with himself. His face morphs into a mask of defiance. "I always do."   
He limps to the bedroom door where Jim is still standing and closes it without looking at him again, shutting him out.

 

_Because I loved him._  
Jim stares at the ceiling, adjusting himself on the uncomfortable couch.  
His skin is buzzing with uneasiness, a knot forming at the back of his throat.   
Oswald, in love with Nygma. _What the fuck._  
He shouldn't be surprised, really. It's Oswald, after all. Trust him to fall in love with another psycho like him.  
 _No. Not like him. He isn't like him._  
Jim turns on the couch, curls on his side and tries to quiet down the uncomfortable thoughts piling up in his head.  
The thought of Oswald--   
Oswald with--  
A mean feeling, something that feels a lot like possessiveness, gnaws at his brain, making his heart beat frantically.   
What did he expect, honestly?  
Jim had always known Oswald had a weakness for him, something that went beyond admiration. Christ, he had even used it, exploited it to get unbalanced favors from the man.   
He knew.   
He had found it repulsive, at first. The mere thought of Penguin having, what? A crush? On him-- It had made Jim want to crawl out of his own skin.   
But it was useful, an asset to take advantage of. So he did.  
But then Oswald had changed, had gained power. He had still held Jim on a pedestal, mind, never refused him a favor, never interfered with his job. But his demeanor had turned defiant, not prone to being used and discarded anymore.   
The whole Galavan deal had opened Jim's eyes to sides of Oswald he had been blind to before: his recklessness, his pride, his unexpected courage, his loyalty.  
His loyalty to _him_.  
He had lied to the police for Jim, had gone to fucking Arkham for him, and what had Jim done when - scared and sick and looking so fucking small in that inmate suit - Oswald had begged him for help?   
Nodded to the guards to take him away. Abandoned him to be tortured.   
And it makes him dizzy with nausea.

Jim gets up from the couch with a tired groan. The house is quiet, no noises coming from his bedroom. Oswald must already be asleep.  
He walks to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of fridge-cold water.  
That mean feelings is still there, nagging him and tightening the knot in his chest, making it sting like barbed wire.  
Oswald and Nygma.   
The thought repulses him, makes him feel ill, makes him feel... cast aside. Which is absolutely ridiculous. It's laughable, sick and wrong--  
"Jim?"  
Jim starts and turns around, almost dropping his glass of water.  
Oswald is standing a few feet from him, and he's looking at him like he didn't expect to find him here. Like he wants to be at the opposite side of the flat, or maybe of the world.   
Jim swallows.  
"I don't mean to disturb you, I was just thirsty," Oswald says, and his voice is flat and distant.  
He's wearing one of Jim's shirts and pyjama bottoms, which he must have picked from Jim's wardrobe without even asking.   
Jim's mind is static noise.   
He says nothing, just hands Oswald the full glass he's still holding in his hand.   
Oswald nods, takes the glass - Jim notices he's being careful to not let their fingers touch - and turns to leave.   
"Is your wound doing better?" The words are out of Jim's mouth before he can think better of it.  
Oswald stops, but doesn't turn his head.  
"Yeah, it is," he says, still with that flat voice that is driving Jim mad.   
Jim nods, though Oswald can't see him.   
The silence stretches, both of them standing still in their spots.   
Oswald finally moves, starts walking towards the bedroom again, his limp more evident than usual.  
Jim lurches forward, his brain shutting down, and before he knows what he's doing he has a hand on Oswald's shoulder.  
Oswald does turn his head this time, regards him with an apathetic stare that makes Jim want to slap it off his face, just so he doesn't have to look at it. Just so he doesn't have to bear the weight of its meaning.  
"Sit on the couch, please," he whispers, still too loud in the buzzing silence of the flat.  
Oswald frowns lightly. "Why?"   
_Why indeed._  
"I need to talk to you."   
That gets him a raised brow, but then Oswald is shoving Jim's hand off his shoulder and slowly walking to the couch. He flops down with a wince and looks up at him, that damned neutral expression back on his face.  
Jim goes to sit next to him, careful to leave an acceptable distance between their bodies.   
His mind feels like it's being hammered repeatedly with a baseball bat. He can smell his own sweat and he knows it's not because of the humid air of the apartment.   
_What the fuck am I doing._   
They sit in silence for a minute, Oswald occasionally taking sips from his glass.   
"I'm sorry."   
Jim had meant to start differently, but he doesn't feel in control of himself anymore. The baseball bat is still hammering at his skull.   
Oswald doesn't laugh, doesn't shout. He just turns to look at him, his jaw slightly tensed.  
"About what?" He replies, conversationally.  
Jim hates it.  
"You know about what."  
"Oh." Oswald raises both eyebrows this time, studies his face like Jim has gone mad. Damn, maybe he's right, he has. He must have.   
Oswald turns his lips upwards in what, in another occasion, would have been a playful smile. Now it’s just an accusation.   
"I mean it," Jim says, like it changes anything.   
Oswald's face finally hardens, the fake smile washing off his face, replaced by a cruel sneer.   
"And what am I supposed to do with your apology?" He rasps, setting the glass down on the floor and turning further towards him on the couch.  
Jim looks down. He can't look at him. His brain is shouting at him to get the hell up and _leave_ but Oswald is so close and Jim can smell him, sweat and the faint shadow of sweet cologne mixed with the smell of his own clothes.  
It's making him dizzy.  
He goes on autopilot. Gets closer to Oswald, starts leaning forward, his eyes pointed on the juncture between Oswald's neck and shoulder.  
Oswald recoils.  
"What the hell are you doing?" He whispers, and he sounds scared.  
Before he can move further away, Jim grabs one side of Oswald's face, goes to put his mouth on his neck. Oswald freezes.  
"What are you doing, get off me--" he starts, his words weak in his throat.  
Jim is lost.  
"Forgive me. _Forgive me._ " Jim punctuates the words by mouthing at Oswald's shoulder, his ear, his jaw.  
Oswald is shuddering under his touch and his warm breath is ghosting over Jim's hair.   
"Oswald. Please."  
As if burned, Oswald shoves him away and moves to stand, limping gracelessly until he finds his posture.   
He is breathing loudly.  
"You don't get to do that."   
Jim blinks at him, still vibrating with adrenaline and battling the knot at the pit of his stomach.  
He stands slowly, like he's trying not to startle a wild animal.   
Oswald's eyes are blue flames reflecting all of Jim's guilt right back at him.  
"You left me in Arkham," he grates out, voice feeble and trembling.  
Jim nods.  
"I know."  
"They tortured me."  
"I know," he repeats, helpless.  
Oswald lifts his chin, stares at him with what is supposed to look like contempt, but only comes out as badly concealed sorrow.   
"I should want to kill you."  
"Yes."   
It's true. Jim is not even sure he'd stop him.   
"Why are you doing this now? What changed?"  
 _I did._  
Jim doesn't answer, just keeps staring at the small, shuddering figure in front of him.   
Oswald makes an aborted movement, takes half a step forward then settles back again.   
"Is this some kind of joke to you?" He begins. "A form of self-punishment? Or, I don't know, some perverse way to prove you still have power over me even after-"  
"No, it's not." _It's not._  
"Then what, Jim? What is this?"  
Oswald's voice is breaking, and he is tugging restlessly at the hem of his - Jim's - too big shirt, shaking his head like he's trying to convince himself of something, his hair a mess, his face alabaster in the weak light of the night. He looks beautiful.  
Jim strides forward, gently pushes against Oswald until his back hits the wall. Oswald is ice under his hands.  
"I don't have an answer to that." Jim leans in, breathes in and exhales shakily, mouth close to Oswald's, who's trembling in his arms.  
Jim raises a hand to Oswald's cheekbone, grazes his thumb across it.  
"Just... let me. I need this."   
_I need you. God help me but it's true._  
Oswald stares at him, eyes wild and filled with fear.  
Jim starts to move away, giving the man a way out, already regretting this and almost wishing for him to put a stop to it-- but then Oswald whimpers and he is _kissing him_.  
Jim groans instantly, his hands grazing their way up to Oswald's hair and carding themselves through the mess of black locks.   
Oswald kisses like he does everything else: gracelessly, but effectively. With fire.  
Jim opens his mouth and pushes his tongue between Oswald's lips as he puts his hands behind his legs and lifts him up against the wall.   
Oswald gasps and breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Jim's.  
"What? What?" Jim asks, voice like gravel. The hammering noise in his mind has ceased, replaced by a high-pitched hum, incessant.  
Oswald shakes his head, an incredulous, almost shocked look painted on his pale face. His lips are wet and red and Jim wants to _devour_ him.  
Oswald stares at him for a few moments, then dips his head into the crook of Jim's neck and breathes him in. His arms, which have been clinging to Jim's arms like a lifeline, wrap around his shoulders and tighten, pushing Jim against him.   
"Jim," he whispers into his shoulder, his whole body trembling.  
Jim sighs, all the piled-up tension leaving his body in that one moment, and walks backwards, bringing Oswald with him.  
"I've got you," he says, as he lays Oswald gently down on the couch so that he's sitting with his feet on the floor.  
He kisses him once, twice, cherishing the small, weak noises coming out of Oswald's mouth.   
Jim kneels on the floor in front of him, dragging his hands down Oswald's front until he reaches the hem of his pyjama pants. He's hard, his erection tenting the fabric.  
He glances up at Oswald, and finds him looking at him with wet eyes and a tense jaw. He almost looks like he's about to cry.  
Jim smiles, leans forward until his head is resting against Oswald's chest and pushes his hand down his pants.  
 _Oh. Oh._  
Oswald whimpers and arches his back, grabbing Jim's shoulders and digging his nails into his shirt.  
Jim wraps his hand around Oswald's dick - it's already leaking, and it's so hard it must be painful - and starts moving it, mimicking what he usually does with his own.  
Jim is hard too, but that's not important now. The only thing that matters is-  
"Oswald. Oswald, look at me," Jim pleads, his hand picking up the pace.   
Oswald is a shuddering mess, his breath leaving his chest in quick, shallow breaths. He looks at Jim and his eyes are wild.  
"Forgive me. Oswald, forgive me." Jim kisses Oswald's chest, then his neck, bites down gently on his shoulder. " _Please._ ”.   
Oswald starts sobbing between his whimpers, his hands cradling Jim's head but refusing to answer.  
Jim pumps his hand faster, bringing Oswald to the edge.   
"Please." He needs Oswald to say it, he needs to hear it.  
"Yes-- Yes, I forgive you. Ah. Ahh." Oswald comes and his whole body seizes up, his legs coming around Jim's waist and holding him there.  
Jim pumps him through it, slows his pace and then stops, removing his hand, which is now covered in come. He doesn't care.  
Oswald has gone limp under him, eyes almost closed and arms draped loosely around Jim's shoulders. He looks perfect.  
Jim is still hard in his own pants, so he uses the same hand to bring himself off in a few, rough movements, pushing his head into Oswald's heaving chest as Oswald caresses his short hair. He comes within seconds. 

They stay like that for a while, Jim with his knees on the floor and his head resting on Oswald's good knee.   
Eventually, Jim stands up with a groan and walks to the kitchen sink to wash the stickiness off his hands.  
When he comes back, Oswald has composed himself and is looking at him with a vulnerable expression, half embarrassment, half fear.   
_Fear of what? Rejection?_ Fear that Jim may regret giving in to whatever just happened and throw him out?   
_It's a little too late for that._  
"Come on. You need rest." Jim nods in the direction of the bedroom and starts walking towards it without waiting for Oswald.  
He slips into bed, and five minutes later Oswald limps through the bedroom door and joins him, careful to curl up on himself as far from Jim as possible.   
Jim can feel the tension in Oswald's small body vibrating through the mattress.   
_Christ. What the hell?_  
Jim rolls onto his side and extends an arm, circles Oswald's waist and tries to pull him towards his chest.   
Oswald startles, and Jim can feel him trembling.  
"It's alright. Oswald. It's alright." Jim drags his hand in circles on Oswald's bony hip, as he gradually relaxes under his touch.  
Finally, after what feels like hours, he scoots closer to Jim so that his back is resting against Jim's front.   
"Okay?" Jim asks, hugging him a little tighter and nuzzling his hair.   
Oswald nods, a tired sigh escaping his lips, and curls his hand around Jim's wrist.  
 _Alright._  
Jim falls asleep to the weak noise of Oswald's breathing.


End file.
